Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 33, No. 3, August 1973

Planting Time by Pauline C. Smith

He was my all, the one thing I had, my life. But — I knew someday he’d be the death of me...

It was real peaceful when Ben wasn’t around, so quiet a man could set and doze once in a while if he was a mind to. Floyd Holladay tipped his chair back against the weatherbeaten front of the house and gazed out over parched fields. When he squinted, letting the sun beads flicker through his narrowed vision, the young orchard beyond looked like it might have forty little saplings instead of only half that number.

The day was like a blanket, soiled and folded double as the breeze stirred up breathless, woolen fluffs of dust from the cracked ground.

This rushing the season was enough to give a man spring fever. Floyd stretched his legs so that the edge of bright light just reached the tips of his dusty work shoes.

He yawned, letting the luxury of inertia rest upon him, and bent his arms to clasp his hands behind his head.

The darker blue moons had long since dried on the faded blue of his shirt.

This kind of day, with the feel of summer close by and the frost hardly out of the ground, a man wanted to warm his winter-tight body in the flannel air and fold back his ear to the plaintive note of the medow lark. A man just kind of wanted to rest a day like this, and let the heat sneak into him.

If his brother were here now, things would be different.

Floyd jerked upright. The front legs of his chair struck the porch floor.

He snapped his eyes wide. His startled glance scuttled from the half-planted orchard to the highway.

All he could see was the dry grass of last year’s crop and the glisten of a few brown, stubborn leaves that still clung to the horny branches of the road trees.

He tried to settle back again, stretching out one foot to the sun’s edge, rocking on the two legs of his chair, nervously moving a finger in half-time to the grace notes of the meadow lark.

Ben probably wouldn’t be back for a couple of days yet. Maybe three. Gradually, Floyd thought himself back into sluggishness as the monotonous drone of newly-hatched insects rode the lazy breeze and came whispering to him like a sleepy breath.

This was the life. Sprawled in the shade of the porch. Letting the buzz of the bees tickle his eardrums and the warmth of the air brush his cheek.

Contentedly, he squinted his eyes at the twenty slender saplings.

Then he heard something.

He rapped his chair to sharp attention. Staring past the half-completed orchard to the curve of the road, he hunched in rigid vigilance.

There it was again.

The panting chug of an overheated motor.

Now a swirl of dust.

Floyd leaped from the porch, disregarding the steps. He sprinted an erratic trail over the dry clay of the yard. Frantically his eyes searched the ground as he ran.

He failed to find the pick or the shovel.

Then he reached the pump and there they were, leaning against the pump handle. He grabbed up the tools just as the truck clanked into the yard and braked with a final explosion.

Floyd looked lip at the dusty face of his brother, and into the eyes regarding him bleakly.

“Surprised to see you so soon, Ben,” he said with strained heartiness. “Didn’t hardly expect you back ’til tomorrow, or maybe the day after.” He ran his sleeve over his mouth. “Just come up to the house for a drink. Hot work.”

He jerked his head toward the tools clutched in his hand.

Ben’s eyes continued to survey him steadily from the high seat of the truck.

“Must have got your business done pretty fast, huh?”

“No,” said Ben deliberately. “Took me a week. Like I told you it would before I left. It’d take me a week to put through the loan, and it’d take you a week to put in the orchard.” Stiffly, Ben turned on the seat and set his foot on the running board. “A week ago today I left. You never did have any sense about time, Floyd. Always was two or three days behind.” He stepped down onto the hard clay. “Just like you’re behind on the orchard.”

“Now don’t start in on me, Ben,” whined Floyd, following him toward the house.

The screen door slammed in his face.

Hitching the tools up under his arm, Floyd pushed through the door and stepped into the kitchen.

“That’s slow work out there in the orchard, diggin’ all them holes. The ground’s like rock when it’s dry.”

Ben hung his hat on the hook and splashed tepid water from a tin pan onto his dusty face. He rubbed off the grime on the roller towel. Half turning to look at his brother over the gray folds of cloth, he said, “You forgot you was carrying them things. Why didn’t you set ’em down?”

With elaborate care, Floyd leaned, first the shovel and then the pick against a kitchen chair.

“It’s awful hot,” he complained. “Slows a man down when it’s hot like this so early in the year. A man’s blood’s gotta get used to the change.”

“Your blood runs slow no matter what the weather is,” Ben snapped. He reached into the icebox. “Didn’t get no ice, either.”

Cutting off six thick slices of bacon, he laid them into the frying pan on the stove. Then he picked up a beer bottle of gasoline and poured a short, steady stream into the chamber under the generator. Reaching into his pocket, he plucked out two matches. One he laid on the edge of the stove, the other he scratched into a blaze on the seat of his pants. Leaning over, he sternly lit the gasoline and straightened up to wait.

“You always do a job by halves.” Ben took the other match and lit it, holding it down to the burner. The hiss was followed by the slow crackle of bacon grease, “left that bare-root stock out in the sun, too. All dried out by now.”

Ben stepped into the pantry and came out carrying four dirty eggs in his big hands. He laid all but one of them in a line by the stove. Holding the egg above the frying pan, he stuck his two thumb nails through the shell and let the round yellow and the glutinous white drop into the pan. It sizzled. After he broke each egg, he tossed its shell into the exact center of the cardboard carton under the stove.

He stood over the pan with the pancake turner.

“You should’ve finished that orchard by now,” he said. “There’s a storm coming up. Nothing like a soaking rain for a new set orchard.”

Deftly, he turned the eggs over.

“There ain’t no storm comin’,” Floyd protested. “It won’t rain for a long time. Probably not until next month.”

Ben gave him a grazing look of contempt before he went back to the eggs. “Didn’t you feel that breeze? It’s from the north. There’s a funny cast in the sky too. Be pouring inside of three hours.”

Ben took two plates from the pantry. Carefully, he sliced the eggs and bacon in half with the pancake turner and filled the plates. He set them on the table. He brought out the milk, the knives and the forks.

“Set,” he said abruptly.

Floyd tipped the handles of the tools away from the chair. He sat down and let the handles rest again in the chair back. He held his fork in one hand and his knife in the other. “You can’t be sure about it, Ben. The wind might change any minute now.”

Ben chewed and swallowed. He shook his head. “Won’t change,” he said decisively. “That wind’ll bring up a storm for sure. See? It’s getting dark already.”

Floyd turned to look out the window. “It’s just gettin’ dark natural. Twilight.”

“Too early.” Ben ate stolidly, his words muffled. “You never got a job done in your life.” Reaching into his pocket for a handkerchief, he wiped the egg from his mouth. His eyes looked coldly at his brother. “Sometimes I wish you was a million miles away. I’d get along better.” He started to rise from the table. “Had a hard time getting that loan because of you.”

Floyd heard the words drop into his brain and felt the creep of humid air curl from his neck on up to his forehead. He laid down his knife and fork. The breeze, passing through the window, was heavy with warmth.

Ben stood and pushed his chair precisely up against the table. “Had to promise I’d see you kept busy so the farm would produce.”

Turning, he stepped away. “Will too. If I have to harness you to the plow.”

The threat and the heat swirled around Floyd’s head like smoke. He rose heavily to his feet. Supporting himself against the back of the chair, he felt the pick handle press deeply into his leg. He looked down at it as if it were a foreign word he couldn’t understand. The smell of bacon grease seeped into his half-open mouth and plugged up his throat. A dust-freighted gust of wind swirled through the window and coated his nostrils.

His hand dropped down upon the pick handle. His fingers curved upon the sympathetic wood.

Ben turned his back and stooped to gaze out the kitchen window.

“Some day,” he said with his hard, dry laugh, “you’ll start a job you’ll wish you finished...”

With one sluggish motion, Floyd tightened his hands around the handle and moved forward. He raised the pick in a slow curving arc. It wavered high and dropped slowly through the hot, heavy air.

Floyd staggered with the weight.

The greasy smell was like a veil in the room. The breeze ruffled it to stifling folds...

With a whistling sigh, Ben crumpled.

“Ben,” quavered Floyd. “Ben.”

He backed off and clutched the chair for support. The pick handle clattered to the pine boards of the floor.

“Ben.”

Floyd stared down unbelievingly at the still, spread-out body. He retreated from it, stumoling over the feet. “Ben.”

Outside, the meadow larks scolded their way to bed. The insect drone turned mournful. A breeze sighed through the window, puffing the tom paper shade, then settling it again with a slap.

“Ben.” As Floyd watched, he swayed, his mouth sagging loose. His feet shuffled and the shovel dropped with a thud and a clang. Floyd jerked, jaws quivering. The sound propelled his mind into slow action.

He had to get outside.

He had to dig a place for Ben. His muscles ached as he bent over for the shovel. Funny how his muscles ached when Ben hadn’t been here to tongue-lash him to work.

He let the screen door slide softly closed behind him. Now the light was dim and the clouds overhead jostled each other. Sure was a storm comin’, just like Ben said.

Out by the oak tree he started to dig, the ground chipping off in flakes under the blade of his shovel. There was a smell in the air of approaching rain and the bare branches rubbed together like dry old fingers.

He really should have the pick to get through this cement-like clay. Dropping the shovel, he started toward the house for it. Then he remembered, stopped short and lumbered back.

The meadow lark scold had muted to a sleepy complaint. The insect whirr was gone. Floyd hacked at the clay with the dull blade. It gave forth a harsh and stony sound.

After he’d chipped off a two-inch layer, he changed his mind.

By the pump, a stream of intermittent water had made a groove in the bank. It should be softer there. Easy digging.

With tottering steps, Floyd reached it.

A soft rumble drummed the sky and the clouds parted to let the light through for an instant. The pump reminded him he was thirsty. He worked the handle and brought forth a thin trickle. Leaning over, he let the water drop into his mouth. It was warm and made the weight in his stomach rise to his throat. He spat it out.

With the edge of his blade, he marked the slender crevice formed by the stream and again leaned on his shovel.

It was damp only a short distance down. From the crease in the ground, the clay broke away in scanty bites.

The heavy air now turned clammy with promise. Floyd felt perspiration ooze from his armpits on down his sides and spread along the top of his pants. It broke out in a sparse sprinkle upon his forehead. The rising wind dried him off in humid gusts.

He felt as if he’d been at this job for hours — days, even. In the lowering darkness, he knelt down to finger the earth and discovered he had made a hole only large enough to plant a young bare-root fruit tree.

Bent over the shallow pit, he felt tears form and squeeze forth. He closed his eyes tight and pressed his lips together, a great pity for himself a hard knot in his throat.

He wished he hadn’t done that to Ben. Ben could have told him how to dig this hole. Ben always told him how to do things.

In his confusion, the brewing storm pressed down with a great loneliness.

He rose from his knees and moaned to his feet. He hobbled toward the dark outline of the truck. He’d have to tell ’em in town. He’d have to tell ’em he couldn’t finish that there hole. He’d have to let ’em know about Ben.

“Floyd.”

He whirled, staring through the uncertain night. Then he saw it, the shadow coming toward him. Quick and sharp.

“Floyd,” came the voice and the harsh, dry laugh.

Floyd backed off, his arms spread out behind him. A roll of thunder broke forth. A drop of rain spattered his face. It was rainin’, like Ben said it would.

He retreated, stumbling, his eyes upon the advancing shadow.

“I told you you’d start a job sometime you wished you’d finished. This is it, Floyd.”

The meadow larks fluttered their wings and scampered through the grass. One whistled in frightened wakefulness.

Floyd’s steps stuttered again. He jerked himself upright, backing over the rough ground.

“Never did finish anything, did you?” came the voice. “But I do, Floyd. I always finish what I start.”

The shadow was coming faster now.

The drops came down thicker.